10 Things I Hate About You
by The Button Harlequin
Summary: Phil is the new kid, Clint can't date, and Steve won't date. There's Loki, who thinks Clint's hot (because he is) but so does Phil. Then there comes the new rule: little brother Clint can date when big brother Steve does. Problem is, Steve's a "crotchety old windbag". But Loki's loaded and Bucky's just in it for the money. Right? Stucky! Phlint! Loki want Clint! Deadpool's here?
1. Phil: Day1: Meeting

A/N: search/10+things+i+hate+about+you+AU+stucky is the tumblr post that spurned this AU, but I have to admit I may *cough* totally *cough* have mixed it up a little bit to make it a tad more entertaining for me to write. I also may have had a little bit too much fun writing this so….read at your own risk? Ah well, you'll find out soon enough. And if you like it enough, send me a button full of love in the form of a review! I heart reviews more than I heart breathing I'm sure. … Yep, definitely sure.

P.S. I have no idea how Wade Wilson made it into this but he did. He broke the fifth wall I swear.

P.P.S. I own absolutely nothing, I swear. That counts for the whole story shebang.

Enjoy this Stucky and Phlint AU of _10 Things I Hate About You_!

_**10 Things I Hate About You**_

Day number 1 of Marvel High: The Meeting. Or at least that's what Phil liked to think of it as in his mental, larger than life Filing Cabinet of Philip Coulson's Experiences. That day was going in the _Amazing Adolescent Actions _file, but it would later go into a sub folder labeled **The Day I Met Him**. Who was **Him**? It wasn't God, Buddha, Allah, or Elvis but someone far greater than anyone he could have ever imagined.

It was right after Spring Break when Phil Coulson's family moved from Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri to Marvel City, residing place of Marvel High who just so happened to have claim to the mascot the Avengers. As the name "sounds so cute" as told by Phil's mother just after his father had finally retired from active military service, that was where the Coulson family settled after sixteen years of moving. Phil didn't even have time to unpack his belongings before he was sent off to school with five dollars for breakfast and ten for lunch, as his mother would set up his room for him (he just let her do as she pleased. He would fix whatever she didn't go exactly right later anyways). As Phil had gone to more schools than most people had fingers (if you had more or less than 10, well, Phil didn't judge) it didn't take long to locate the generic office with its generic secretary and its generic –

"What the hell have I told you about using the autobody shop for building illegal motorized AI death robotic units of mass destruction of school property?"

"Was that before or after you threw the stapler at my head the last time?"

"Don't shit with me, Stark."

"Alright fine it turned out to be a thinking death ray, but that was completely not my fault. It turned on me at the last second and became its own thinking person, which by the way, is way smarter than half the school even if its only has blood thirsty as, say, 29% of the total population of – "

"Stark."

"Yes Principal Fury?"

"Just leave the autobody shop alone Stark. And if I find that you've been within a hundred feet of it for the next two weeks so help me I'll throw your ass out of this school with my own two hands."

"And one eyeball?"

"_Get out Stark_."

Phil heard a rustling on the other side of the principal's door and got out of the way just fast enough to see a lanky tan boy with an unruly and slightly greasy dark head of hair scurry out faster than a speeding laser. The generic secretary with too many cat figurines finally addressed Phil and nasseled out, "The Principal will see you now."

Taking one last deep breath before the dive, Phil strode boldly into the office with the tall dark man with an eyepatch and the glare to make the Devil's balls shrivel in despair (but not Phil's of course, oh no. The Devil and he were on good terms afterall and Phil liked to think that he had more than the Devil). _Well that explains the one eye joke_, he thought but said bluntly, "Phil Coulson reporting for first day orientation."

Principal Nick Fury (as stated by a brass nameplate on a solid oak desk) took one look at this strange new teenager with the straight back and the military bearing, the steady eyes and the eeriely familiar perfect poker face and said, "K's boy?"

"Yes sir."

"I knew your father back when we served," the principal's stance relaxed into something less I-Will-Rip-Out-Your-Spine-And-Beat-You-To-Death-With-It to more of a I'll-Wait-And-See-If-I-Need-To-Bury-A-Body. It calmed Phil's fight-or-flight response but only just an iota. "He's a good man, knew how to handle little shits like Stark and Loki. I might just have to visit him for tips now that I know he's in town."

Inside all of Phil's survival alarm bells were shrieking to decline. "I'm sure that he'd like that very much sir. I just came in to see if I need anything for orientation, but I see that there's no need. May I go to my first class now?"

"You can do whatever you want, just don't come to me when you get lost. There'll be a student aid out in the hall that'll help you. Now get out of my office."

"Thank you sir." Not so much striding as scurrying by that point, Phil made it out into the hallway to see a boy about his age, dark skinned, bald, bespectacled and slightly chubby in a basic button up and slacks.

"You're the new kid right?" A quick nod from Phil. "Good. The name's Sitwell, don't ask my real name, you're not getting it. Let me give you the basics." Sitwell then proceeded to tell all that he knew of various teachers and cliques as they made their way to their shared first class. "Over there are the serum sluppers, they use steriods and gym equipment like an old lady uses yarn. Those are the HYDRA Heads, don't mess with them unless you want to look like a walking painted skeleton like their leader over their Red Skull; rumor has it that he took so much HYDRA that his skin turned red for a month."

"What is HYDRA?"

"A drug that makes you smarter and angier than our resident rage monster and yet not nearly as handsome. Don't mess with them unless you want to end up shoved in a locker at the bottom of a cement pool. And over there are the coffee snobs, go around them when you can as they bite when provoked; however their Queen Bee Pepper is sweet on new guys so she could probably get you a cup if you asked. Don't look in that direction; that's the anti-heros squad with their leader, Loki. Don't mess with them unless you want something somewhere and somewhen you don't want it. Then over there you have your state of the art Ivy League kids working ever harder towards the brighter future. Hey guys, how's it going?" The kids at the Ivy League table, who were dresses remarkably similarly to Sitwell, merely took one look at him in disdain and turned back to their various projects. Homework, science fair graphs, quantum mechanics and the equations of the universe, you know, the _smart_ kid stuff.

"They don't seem very receptive," Phil commented as he and Sitwell kept walking towards their class and further from the underhanded glares of people with IQ's over 140.

"I blame Reed Richards."

"Why's that?"

"He told them I shop for my science equipment as IKEA. It's not a coup, more of a hostile take over, but I'll get him and them back." A glint appeared in his that spoke of plans, evil and ingenious plans, "It will take time but I'm nothing if not patient."

Phil opened up his mouth comment on helping with any scheming (he was in like a broken pair of glasses at a nerd convention) when out of nowhere a projectile whizzed by Phil's ear and landed with a solid _thud!_ right behind him where there came shrill squeaking and and slightly less annoying yelping. A quick glance behind him revealed a NERF arrow stuck firmly on the wood of the table the nerds were currently evacuating. Phil looked up to see where the arrow had come from and it was _there. From him. __**Him.**_

Standing proudly as a pirate ship's captain on top of a table with a longbow and a quiver of NERF arrows by his side, he couldn't have been much taller than Phil but by all that was good and wonderful he was certainly better looking. Strawberry blond hair, a tight wiry build, sun blessed skin and sharp eyes full of mischief and humor, the teen was God's gift to Phil. "Sorry about that!" _Oh God his voice!_ "I couldn't see my target through all your bullshit smarts and nasty remarks." The teen nocked another arrow and released it in the blink of an eye to hit the physics textbook of a fleeing individual. "That was for science class," another arrow, this time into the lunch sack of a human pizza face, "that was for making fun of me in Home Ec.!" A third onto the brim of the hat of the leader, the one identified as Reed Richards, "And _that_ was for pissing me off and telling the Colonel about Johnny, you asshole!"

Just as it seemed that the barage was over there came a shower of NERF darts that plugged themselves onto the various peoples in the vicinity, but mostly the fleeing nerds who just couldn't flee fast enough. Not even half a second ago there was nobody standing beside the arrow guy, but in the half second later there stood an absoultely show stoppingly beautiful red head with one medium sized NERF gun in each hand and a smirk like the cat that ate the canary. "I think we showed them what two foam assassins can do, don't you think, Clint?" the red head turned to her compatiot while stashing the NERF guns into her perfectly deadly looking black purse.

The strawberry blond male grinned like a helion and seemed to just simply revel in the chaos that the two of them had created, the jocks running one way, the HYDRA users the other, and above all the nerds in the opposite direction after feeling the wrath of an apparently very annoyed deity. "That we did, Nat! That should keep them from making snide comments whenever I burn a cake now."

"That wasn't even a cake anymore, that was hazardous waste that the teacher had to dump in the biology room with a warning label."

"You don't have to _agree_ with the kids that made fun of me for it!"

"I agree with the truth, but I don't agree with the little notes that they gave you later."

The boy grinned, "Aw, you're the best, Nat!" The red head smirked with her head cocked to one side that spoke volumes of how much she agreed with him.

The two continued to bicker as they hopped off the table to wherever they were headed but Phil Coulson couldn't find it in him to be damned to care where. Sitwell, pulling off a stray dart from his forehead, looked to his new charge to see if he needed to be consoled as those sort of days tended to end in tears for some. What he saw was nothing short of awe inspiring as Phil stood cool and unimpressed among the carnage of Nat and Clint, watching them go with a vague interest and calculating eyes.

"Who are those two?" Phil asked flatly, observing the two still until they turned around a corner and away from view.

Sitwell stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out a motive. The moment everything clicking together made an almost audible noise. Sitwell was sharp, but Phil already knew that. "Oh no. No, no, no, no, _no."_

"Excuse me?"

"You have your eye on one of them and that is the worst idea I've heard since Loki tried to tame the Tesseract Dogs. They're the terrors of the school! They will eat you up and spit you back out with nothing but bones and little chewy bits to prove you existed."

"I've had worse odds." And that was the end of that. Despite Sitwell's best efforts Phil Coulson's mind could not be changed from going after that fine ray of energy that knocked him out without ever lifting a finger.

"Fine." Sitwell and Phil were sitting beside each other in the back of Business Education and firmly ignoring everything the teacher had to say (come on, _Sitwell and Coulson_ needed to learn business? Bitch please) and doodling or doing whathaveyou when Sitwell finally conceded to Phil's straight faced interrogation techniques. "Natasha Romanov and Clinton Barton are the two resident "foam assassins" at Marvel High. They are always together when they have the chance and will defend each other to the death for the other's honor. They've known each other longer than some marriages have lasted and came out together at the same time, so they're not dating even though they would dump whoever it was they were dating if the other half of the duo needed something. They're that close, so don't do anything that you'll regret later."

"Tell me more about Clint."

Sitwell's eyebrows rose. "So that's what you're into, huh? Alright then – you can't date Clinton Francis Barton."

Phil whipped his head from his dating plan noted to stare at his informant. "_Excuse me?"_ Sitwell shivered from the sheer ferosity of the blank faced glare.

"Clint isn't allowed to date _anybody_," explained, pulling his soul back up from the icy hell that was Phil's eyes. "Colonel Philips has a rule that prohibits both of his foster children from dating because he's afraid that if the two of them go out then more chaos will erupt than he can handle. In truth, he's probably right."

Phil raised his head slightly, a tilt of reflection to his thoughts. "Clint has a brother?"

"Yes, a foster brother named Steve Rogers. But he's, well…."

"…which is why Claude Monet was an absolutly pretentious individual and didn't care for his comrades at all when they were the ones that truly created the Impressionist Movement."

It took a few seconds for the class to wake up from their respective naps that they had taken while Steven Rogers, the one giving the report, waited patiently, if with some exasperation, to do so. Maria Hill, art teacher and the one who gave the only half-a-fuck in the entire room concerning Steve's report, blinked blearily at the sound of silence.

"Is that all you have to say on Monet? Are we done now?" Hill asked, wondering what the hell ever happened to her career in espionage that made her want to be a high school teacher.

"Oh no, there's still plenty more to say," a collective groan from the class that was still awake, "but there's not enough time and still so much to say about Impressionists in general, not to say that the people that contributed their time didn't have talent. In fact – "

"Rogers."

"Yes ma'am?"

"Get you're annoying ass out of my classroom."

Steve bristled. "Well I apologize for putting you into a knowledge induced coma," he began packing his things, "I was under the impression that No Child Left Behind supported education to its fullest degree. Just because Claude Monet was given credit for the Impressionist movement doesn't mean that he actually invented it."

"Rogers."

"Yes ma'am?"

"_Leave_."

Steve Rogers, undeterred by the hateful glares of the inexcusably bored, marched with his head held high all the way to the Principal's office. One look from Generic Secretary and he was sent into Fury's office without a word. He settled himself comfortably into the familiar seat and waited patiently for Fury to look up from his book (the cover jacket said _The Art of War_ but anyone who knew Fury knew that it was another Harlequin Romace Novel, the kind with the busty women and long-haired Fabio. If one knew Fury enough they would also notice that he never seemed to "finish" _The Art of War, _or for at least the last four years).

"So I heard that you literally bored your Art History class to tears today, Rogers," Fury stated without ever looking up from his book. Ah, he was probably referencing Sam; he never did do well when sitting and disengaged for long periods of time. "And that your five minute long presentation on Monet ended up being nearly thirty. My sources tell me that one kid fell asleep in under a minute; that's some fancy talent you got there." Fury finally set his book down on his desk to stare directly into Steve's eyes, "Do you know how annoying and godly you can be without ever bringing up a deity? Most religions would say that was talent, if it wasn't for that fact that you repel people away with your shiny goodness like Tequila and jello shots at a MADD meeting."

Steve frowned slightly at the mention of something as immoral as drinking at an MADD meeting, but did nothing to combat the accusations otherwise. This was old news to him. No really, it was _old_ news; think back to the fifth grade and when he started to believe in everything good and pure and reject the everyday impoliteness and social injustice of modern day society. He went to every Town Hall meeting and walked in every parade he had the chance to be in to show his support for the worthy causes of the world. What was wrong with that?

Steve said as much to Principal Fury, who stared at him like he was both too good to be true and too much of a relic to properly exist. "Do you know what the most common phrase used is to describe you in this school?"

"A good person with strong values and morals?"

"Crotchety old windbag."

Steve leaned back in his chair indignantly and frowned at his principal. "Well, it's not my fault that kids these days just aren't that interested in being respectable, moral, and kind to their fellow man."

"Kids these days don't talk like they're from the 40s." Fury sighed and leaned back in his own chair, observing Steve like one might observe an anaconda devouring a mouse. Steve, on his part, was trying to remain as nonchalant about the whole (very common) thing as possible but the Fury Stare TM was starting to get under his skin. "Just make sure that it doesn't happen too soon again. I don't wanna see you in here for at least another week."

"Yes sir," Steve agreed hastily, quickly escaping with his belongings out of the office before his soul burst into flames. Fury rolled his eyes. Picking up _The Art of War_ he flipped to his bookmarked page and began to read.

Donna totally had to break up with Brad afterall.

"But _why_ would you want to subject yourself to something like that?"

Day 1 of Marvel High. Location: Cafeteria. Current Action: Trying to find edible things while ignoring the pesky advice of a sane individual. Or at least that was what Phil liked to think anyways.

"He's full of fire," Phil said in way of explanation, examining a small plastic container of rubbery looking jello (but it was labeled pudding…. Phil put the "pudding" back).

"Yeah, enough fire to burn down the whole city and surrounding suburbs," Sitwell muttered, picking up the "pudding" that Phil had just put down and onto his own tray.

Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes and picked up a "cesar salad" instead ( don't ask about the details. You don't want to know.) to deposit it onto an otherwise bare tray. "I just need to find a way around no dating rule."

"And what's your plan for that?"

Phil didn't answer until they had both paid and were sitting down in the outside lunch area where just earlier that day the foam assassins had attacked and Phil knew what it was to think that that love at first sight might, barely, exist. "I'm going to gather intel by way of communication with the charge and then further my planning into something I can act on."

Sitwell chewed his pudding in silent contemplation as he dissected all the military talk into nerd speak. "You're going to ask if he needs a tutor so you have an excuse to talk to him."

"…Yes." Phil never said it was a fool proof plan. And Sitwell could speak Coulson? Where was he in middle school when Phil needed him?

"Then you're in luck," Sitwell announced, politely and pointedly pushing the "pudding" off the tray and onto the far end of the table away from the two of them, "Clint's taking a cooking class, and from what I hear his food is legendary for being toxic waste. Even Natasha gave up on him after a few times."

Phil perked up for the first time in hours. "Clint can't cook?" _That's adorable. _"I can cook. Teaching him shouldn't be hard."

Sitwell didn't say a word as he turned slowly to look at the "pudding" that was turning an indescribable purple color in the chill heat of post-Spring Break weather. "Tell that to me when the people who made _that_ and say it's good while at the same time say Clint's cooking can kill."

Phil firmly did not look at the source of a new and curiously bad odor that was coming from the direction of a certain dairy product. "Good things always require hard work to make them worth it."

Sitwell raised a single eyebrow. "Then goodnight Romeo, and tell me how the poison tastes when you both think you're dead."

The first day of school went by with far less hassle and far more headache than Phil had ever experienced before. Clint, his dating prohibition and how to talk to him were all thoughts that bounced and banged against the insides of his skull until he was so intimately familiar with his own insecurities that he thought he might as well bury himself before he left the school grounds. But it wasn't until he was in the parking lot getting to his beat up Chevy truck (hand-me-down from Grandpa Coulson) that he solidified his decision to go after Clint.

He was walking with Sitwell to their resective vehicles in the parking lot when Phil spotted Clint and Natasha walking away from the building and into the both of them. "Whoops, sorry about that," Clint chirpped with a half-apologetic-half-quirky grin when he spotted just whom he had bumped into. "Oh, hey Sitwell! How's the nerd takeover going?"

"Quite well thank you," Sitwell deadpanned, "Although it might have gone better if I wasn't interrupted by arrows and darts in the future."

"They were all asking for it," Clint waved away the thinly veiled chastisement. "But I see you're point. I'll give you a heads up next time I'm going after revenge."

Natasha gave a delicate snort. "Like you ever plan more than a few minutes in advance." Clint glared at her sideways.

Phil saw the opprotunity and took it before it ran away. "I was actually impressed by the accuracy you both possessed, considering your projectiles were made of orange foam and you had a pulling north-northeasterly wind."

Then there came the moment that Phil felt he had accomplished one of his life goals (brand new – added to the list that morning) when he saw both Clint and Natasha's eyes widen in surprise and respect.

"And who are you?" Natasha questioned.

"Phil Coulson," Phil shook hands with Natasha first as she was the one that asked. "I arrived this morning. I was just in time to see the spot on shooting of the both of you." Phil was shaking Clint's hand when he look him directly in the eye as he said next, "I thought you were spectacular."

Another newly added life goal was accomplished when Clint's face turned a fetching shade of pink at the compliment. "Thanks," Clint mumbled and glanced away to look at Nat's calculating gaze and blushed even harder. Damnit, why did she have to know his _type_ was standing _right there?_ He'd rather be hung out by his toes before giving her a good reason to tease him about his stale love life. "I thought we would always provide entertainment to those that ask," he winked with far more confidence than he felt. Phil, for his part, didn't even flinch. The corners of his mouth turned up just the slightest bit, like it was his shy and restrained equivalent of a smile. Never mind the fact that he was tall, broad, had good hair and an even better handshake. He _had_ to work out.

Oh Clint was _ffffuuuuucccckkkkeeeedddd….._

"So what classes are you taking, Phil?" Natasha asked during a half second of awkward tension.

"Biology, AP English, Business, that sort of thing. But I have to say that my real passion lies in cooking. I was a little bit disappointed in learning that all the Home Economics classes specializing in food preparation were all taken up."

"Are you any good at it?" Clint shot Nat a pointed look.

"Of course," Phil responded, not missing a step. "But from what I hear, you can't, Clint?"

"He burns water," Natasha informed him, a corner of her mouth curling up unbidden. "But, he has potential buried very, very, _very_ deeply. He just needs some forward guidance, and not the kind that the school's teachers like to tell at him."

Clint rolled his eyes as things sloted into place. "Nat, I don't need a –"

"Do you need a tutor?" Phil asked neutrally, looking to Clint to provide the answer.

"No – " Clint flinched at Nat's sharp glare, "….yes. I really do. But you don't need to."

"No." Clint whipped his head over in surprise at Phil, before the brunett realized what it sounded like. "I mean that, I would be happy to help. I'm new here so I'm available pretty much anytime and we can use the school's Home Ec. rooms to work in, since I like to experiment with food, too."

Clint blinked. "Ok then. Um, I'll give you my number and we can iron out the details?" Phil readily agreed and the two exchanged their cell numbers.

"Well," Natasha said when there was once again an awkward silence, "It was nice to meet you Phil." Phil said likewise and Clint and Natasha made their way towards the bus, their heads together in serious conversation.

Sitwell turned to Phil, "I think that went well."

Phil nodded, "It did."

"Now you just have to meet Steve."

Phil looked at Sitwell. "Clint's brother?"

A harsh honk interrupted whatever was said next. They turned towards the noise and witnessed a scrawny boy on a moped trying desperately not to fall while a large truck that was more rust than metal was behind them. A blond head stuck itself out the window to shout at the figure, "Please acquaint yourself with the vehicle before deciding that it's a good idea to ride it. Just because you think you could drive it doesn't mean that you actually can. Get out of the way before I show you how the controls work, you're blocking traffic."

At the "threat" of showing the boy how to drive his moped by the blond young man, the scrawny one in the end hopped off his motorbike to roll it to the grass. The blond seemed to roll his eyes and scowl before saying to the boy with the moped, "Please receive your license before attempting to endanger the lives of other motorists when you need to get from Point A to Point B. Thank you and have a nice day." With that the truck driver stuck his head back in his car and drove off in an engine cough of black smog.

Phil waited a few seconds before asking. "Who was that crotchety old windbag?"

Sitwell, for the first time all day and for the first time since Phil had known him, smirked. "That was Steve Rogers. Oh yes, you might know him better as Clint's brother. You know, the one you want to date?"

Phil could feel his eye start twitching. "Seriously?" He was tempted to roll his eyes, but they spotted something far more interesting. "Is that Clint? Who is that with him?"

Sitwell didn't even think that the possessive tone was out of place when he saw Clint and Natasha riding on the back seat of a black convertible, Clint talking animatedly to a skinny moon-skinned boy with slicked back black hair (grinning with far too much predatory intent for Phil's liking) and Natasha gracefully ignoring what looked like bad flirting from a wild looking blond haired boy with terrible scars running up and down whatever skin could be seen. "Oh boy."

"What?"

Sitwell sighed as he saw the black haired boy tear out of the parking lot with Clint and the blond boy shrieking with joy and Natasha looking graceful as ever. "The blond would be Wade Wilson. He's more insane than the words "crazy nutball" can explain and likes to talk to his little boxes – don't ask. Just don't. The black haired stick is Loki, remember? The leader of the anti-hero squad? He's wanted Clint for as long as they've known each other but Clint's rule against dating prevents that from getting anywhere."

Phil almost allowed the scowl to take over his face, but as it stood he might not have a choice. He could feel the gears in his head working. "So Loki wants Clint, huh?"

Sitwell took one look at the thoughtful glint in his new friend's eye. "Oh no. No, don't do it, you will not win one over him. He is the King of Pranks and he will defeat you." But even as he spoke, Sitwell could feel the diamond hard determination that was coming off of Phil in waves.

"Not if I defeat him first."

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Remember kiddies, Reviews = Love! And breathing! Breathing is important, so that means reviews are too!


	2. Phil: The Plan and The Plan Revised

A/N: Oh boy… the argument ran away from me and ended up being the largest chunk of the chapter… Ah well, at least it was fun to write.

P.S. I will try to update once a week but life gets in the way so expect once every two weeks. If you get a chapter early then that means it was a very good week for the Buttons.

P.P.S Occasionally life really sucks, so, sorry about how incredibly late this is.

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't gain. Simply to entertain.

_**Chapter 2: The Plan and The Plan Revised Edition**_

_**Later that Evening of Day 1**_

When Clint finally made it home that day it was by sneaking very guiltily in via open downstairs window in the living. In that living room happened to be his big (foster) brother Steve with an open sketchbook in his lap and a pencil held in a graphite smudged hand. In the kitchen there seemed to be a ranting of a dignified, if slightly monotonous aged voice, and _oh no he sounded mad._

" – and when I find him he's going to wish he stayed at the Academy the extra years and then some! That boy is going to make a fool out of himself and it's going to be me to bail him out and do you understand the amount of paperwork that I have to do in a week anyways?" The ranting continued but seemed to taper off into a sort of rough and pissy grumbling that was about as old lady-ish as Clint's foster father was going to get.

_Oh god he was so dead._

Steve, silent throughout the entire triad and wordlessly raising a condescending eyebrow at Clint when he sat on the window sill half-in half-out of the house, like he didn't want to entirely come in yet despite the cold night. Steve couldn't say that he blamed him entirely, but, well, it was Clint's own fault that he was getting in so late and pissing off their foster father like that but at the same time the Colonel could probably literally lecture their ears off when he was in the mood ( don't even ask about the Great Pie Lecture of 2008. It's not even worth the lecture that you would receive about the lecture that happened.)

Clint's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as he saw his foster brother open his holier-than-thou mouth and darted into the living room to slap his hand over Steve's mouth just in time to prevent any peep. Clint put the index finger of his free hand over his lips, and shook his head silently begging Steve to help his brother out. Steve glared reproachfully. Clint wasn't getting out it that easily.

Clint jerked his hand back in a very unmanly squeak when he felt something very warm and wet and very much like a tongue lick his palm. While Clint was rubbing said palm on his jeans to thoroughly get rid of any Goody-Two-Shoes Germs, Steve called over his shoulder towards the kitchen, "I found him!"

Clint scowled in betrayal at Steve, who was calmly curled up in the squishiest armchair in the room (actually a rather nice royal blue suede that had seen a few decades before Steve was even born and had a very comfortable white lap blanket draped across his legs where his hands and sketchbook rested easily on top) and simply returned a very patronizing look. Clint was going to spit out something very rude (quite literally) but didn't have the chance as Colonel Chester Philips, foster father and Head Instructor at the East Way Range Academy, marched into the living room with heavy and frankly pissy steps.

One look was all that it took before Clint just knew he had shrunk to be two inches tall and a walking chibi before Colonel Philips even spoke, "And where have you been?"

Clint gulped soundly before answering carefully, "I've been out with my friends. You know, all one of them."

"The Romanov girl?" Clint nodded. "She always goes to the Community Center on Wednesdays for her Karate classes. She would be there for the last _hour and a half_."

Even Steve winced with Clint at the Colonel's tone. It was sometimes a tough deal to remember that the Colonel and Natasha were actually close allies in the war against Clint's stupid decisions, and clearly Clint had forgotten that fact at a critical moment. Steve could sympathize; all that information that one readily looked over because it was difficult to process was usually the really important stuff.

"I helped with her set up and watched for a little while?"

"Are you asking me or telling me," and that phrase was more a demand than a question ought to be.

"Telling you sir." Steve didn't even have to look at Clint to know false bravado would be plastered all over him at this point. It was defense mechanism #1: seem confident and like you're telling the truth so that people will believe you.

"Telling me a lie more like it," the Colonel stated flatly, and once again Steve and Clint shared a wince at the tone. "You were out with those hoodlums Loki and Wade Wilson again weren't you?"

"They're not '_hoodlums_', sir," Clint defended, straightening up just a bit. Steve was now watching the exchange from his armchair like one might watch a particularly deadly tennis match where the ball had been exchanged for a live grenade. The first to drop it would blow up in smithereens. "They just like to have a little fun is all. They're pranks are usually pretty harmless." _And the ball is now shakily in the Colonel's court; what will the experienced player do next? _

"You mean the pranks that cost the Fosters their water pipes, the Starks their lawns, the Parkers their refrigerator, and the other Wilsons their dignity?" Clint's full body jerk gave all the answer that was needed. _And Clint Barton stumbles at the lob! Can he recover from such a serious upset in the rhythm of his game or is he down for the count?! _

"I need my other friends Colonel! I can't just be around Nat all day long. She'd kill me before she'd say that she didn't want me around and I swear that she's going to take me shopping and I'll actually _buy something_ at one of her girly stores the next time she takes me if I have to go again this week." _Barton just manages to rebound the ball back with his brutal need and boyish honesty! But it's close to the net and the Colonel will have to work to catch the ball that barely cleared Clint's side of the court._

"Which is perfectly fine if that's something you want to do," the Colonel sounded so understanding just then that it nearly hurt to listen to him, but continue to talk he did, "But the fact of the matter is that you're hanging around miscreants and delinquents and they're going to pull you into their shady little world because it looks shiny but is polished with piss and buffered shit." _THE COLONEL LOBS WITH TREMENDOUS FORCE! It's not clear if player Barton will be able to retaliate with a statement of his own! It appears that his feet are stumbling to get to the ball before it escapes him completely._

"They aren't _that_ bad. Loki just wants to hang out is all. Wade just tags along because nobody else will tolerate him," Clint counters, using his whole body like a wall against the oncoming slew of verbal reprimands that are sure to thump against him. _BUT NO! Barton manages to trip and magically send the ball back into the Colonel's territory by the skin of his teeth, but now it's clear that the more experienced player has the upper hand. What will be the Colonel's next move?_

"They are that bad and they are going to make sure that you'll end up being their bitch in the cell next door if you keep hanging around them. And don't think that I don't know what all this 'hanging out' business is, I know that Loki's got his eye on you. You know the rules: no dating until you're in college." _The Colonel attacks with the legendary Responsible Common Sense Lob! Barton has yet to effectively counter this move, but will he have one for us today?_

"I don't see why I can't date!" Clint is shouting now and angry as only an angst ridden sexually frustrated teenager can be, "All the other kids at school are making their own mistakes while dating; why can't I?" _The ever popular All the Other Kids are Doing It Rebound is used although it's weak strike has yet to ever phase the Colonel._

"And if all the other kids were jumping into a pool of lava to have their skin incinerated and their flesh burned off would you do it too?" (The original 'would you jump off a bridge' version was moot, as Clint had already done that for ten bucks, a pack of gum, and shits and giggles.) "Take Steve for example: He's a good kid with a good record and is undoubtedly going to a good college and he's not dating anyone." _THE COLONEL PULLS IN A SPECTATOR FOR SUPPORT! The rules are sketchy where that is concerned but the Colonel is nothing if not determined to win every match._

"Steve is a prude and an old man in a teenager's body," Clint shot back, pointedly ignoring the fiery glare that he could feel coming from a certain blue armchair, "He doesn't even want to date anyone. Not like anyone would ever date him anyways, he'd probably would just preach at them all day about basic hygiene and Civil Rights or something like that." _And Barton takes the lead for the first time as he shoots down the Colonel's underhanded attack with his own Everyone Knows That Counter! The Colonel is in a tight spot; can he recover in time before the ball blows up? _

"Really then?" A clever smirk spread across Colonel Philips' face and Steve and Clint couldn't help but shiver in dread at the sight. Whenever that particular look crossed anyone's face it was time for the Evil Sirens to go off. The fact that it was on their foster father's face was all the more worrying for it. "Then I propose a change to the dating rule effective immediately. When Steve dates, you can date." _THE COLONEL HAS JUST UPSET THE BALANCE OF THE GAMING UNIVERSE WITH HIS BRAND NEW DECLARATION OF DATING LOB! A NEVER BEFORE SEEN MOVE! How can Clint Barton possibly recover from such a shocking upset?! _

Steve looked just as shocked as Clint, although without any of the horror. "But Steve is a _prude_," Clint waved his arms in emphasis to show off Steve's neatly combed hair, his clean button up shirt (entirely buttoned save the first two, as he was lounging in his own home), and khakis that were peaking out from under the lap blanket. "Nobody wants to date Steve!" _Barton has clearly offended his only support from the spectators by his temper tantrum. He is barely hanging in by a thread of sheer defiance!_

"Then I clearly have nothing to worry about," the Colonel stated, casually sliding his hands into his pants pockets with all the self satisfaction of the victor before the final bell, "and you will probably never date. Oh, you not dating ever, that is a nice a feeling. So I reiterate: you can date when Steve dates. Until then you aren't going to be hanging around those idiot troublemakers. That is final. Now if you don't mind I have some _Army Wives_ and _Behind the Barracks_ to catch up on. Good night Clint. Good night Steve." And with that said, the Colonel strode out of the living and into his bedroom to watch his soaps (he cries like an expressionless baby when he watches them but he'd probably shoot himself before he admitted it, even if both Steve and Clint knew because they'd seen him when he left his door open).

_THE BIGGEST UPSET OF THE CENTURY ENDS WITH COLONEL CHESTER PHILIPS ONCE AGAIN WINNING HIS MATCH BY A LANDSLIDE! But how will this new development play out in future battles, as the final move blew Barton's former consistent actions to little chunky, bloody – _

"_Steve_," Steve snapped out of his internal commentating to see that Clint had sidled up to his armchair with his best kicked puppy pleading face, "you can get a date, right?"

Steve snorted humorlessly as he snapped his sketchbook shut to stand up and away from his brother. "You mean a prudish old man in a teenager's body can get a date with an irresponsible and maybe even mean individual? I don't think so."

"But _come on_!" Clint rounded into Steve's face to use the full force of his puppy eyes (difficult as Steve was head and shoulders above him). "You can't just, find someone to hang out with and call it dating to help a brother out right? _Your brother_, I might add."

Steve gave Clint his most wry look before stating the obvious, "Ok 1) that was uncalled for and mean, and 2) there is absolutely no way that I'm going to hang around somebody that I don't know or like in that way because that is both unfair to me and them. You're just going to have to wait until I find somebody worth it or you're out of the house and on the other side of the country."

Clint gaped like an extremely stupid and unattractive fish (to be totally honest Steve has never been able to see what other people see in his brother, but that wasn't up to him). "But – but…," Clint spluttered, "you can't just _find somebody?_ You're hot and smart and an artist Steve! You could find some soulless bastard to preach to while you're out with them or something."

"Good night Clint." And with that firmly ground out between clenched teeth, Steve very nearly stomped upstairs to his own room, leaving Clint indignant and helpless in the living room.

"Is that a big no or a not-really-I'm-just-mad-at-you no?"

00000000000000

When Day 2: The Plan, finally rolled around for Phil it was both exciting and extremely satisfying to know that he had everything figured out. Walking down the practical sciences hallway after school, everything was falling into shifty place.

"Hey, watch where you're going nerd!" A heavy set human pimple attempted to ran his shoulder into Phil which would have sent him careening into the lockers that lined the hallway. Instead, all that boy found was a perfectly placed ankle that sent that bulbous thing called his head into the rusted metal used by dozens before. Phil kept walking away from the scene of the crime, completely unconcerned and cool. (What, plain and quiet Phil Coulson trip him? Surely you jest.)

Phil's plan was rather simple and not altogether agreeable according to common practice of dating, but he was always up for a challenge:

**The Plan to Dating Clint Barton:**

Get him to agree to it

a. woo through cooking and competence

Sneak out after school to do dating things

b. i.e. arcade, movies, food, etc.

Obtain first kiss by the end of spring/beginning of summer

c. preferably before prom or at prom

Phil had to admit to himself that the simpler the plan was the easier it would be to follow, but the lack of details did leave him something to be desired (he was a detail oriented person after all – the lack of facts in his plan was practically giving him hives). But he pushed that all aside for the fact that he was coming up to the Home Eco. room that he had permission to use (read: stared down the teacher until permission was given) and also the only one with four extra fire extinguishers, just in case. From the sound of the cursing and banging and squawks of indignity coming from the room, however, in appeared that Clint was already making a mess.

Phil braced himself for whatever trials a hot guy with a NERF bow and arrows was about to put him through, but nothing could have prepared him for the disaster that was the Home Eco. room when he pushed the door open.

Peanut butter was dripping from the ceiling next to red tomato sauce (Phil hoped, otherwise a trip to the nurse was due very soon), a spatula was wedged in a ceiling tile and the cast iron skillet was lying face down in a lumpy green pea soup (Phil was hoping dearly that it was food and not some human expulsion). Marshmallow (?) was burned a sugary black and bow tie noodles in various states of cooked were scattered about the rest of the room, stuck to whatever sticky surface it could find. Clint was, obviously, the center of mass destruction as he was head to toe covered in various colors and smells and bow tie noodles, holding a blacked pot away from him by surprisingly clean pot holders.

Phil took in the entire scene with just a sweep of his eyes. Clint was still cursing out the pot and whatever was inside the pot (Phil really didn't want to know if it was still moving or not) and had apparently not noticed him yet. Phil pulled out of the classroom quietly, shutting the door in his wake, keeping his hand on the handle. He closed his eyes, tipped his head back, took the biggest breath that he could, and exhaled slowly out his nose. Oh the pains of hot guys…

000000000000

"Thanks for, you know," Clint held up a newly cleaned pan that Phil hadn't even noticed was dirty in the first place, "helping me clean up this mess. I know it isn't exactly great first tutor experience and all. But hey, at least you didn't get food poisoning!" Phil smiled at that and took the pan from a freshly showered (via locker room) Clint and dried the pan to put it into its rightful place.

The room was glowing with its cleanliness thanks to the elbow grease that Clint and Phil had put into it, managing to make everything just as it was in only the hour and a half that they had the room for. Sure most of it was Clint trying to get himself clean in the locker rooms down the hall (and not everything was off. If Phil looked closely at Clint's hair then he swore he could still see a noodle or some burned black sugar.

"It was no problem," Phil responded kindly, taking up his thankfully unmarred backpack from a clean space and slinging it over his shoulder. "But perhaps next time you should wait to get started, at least until I'm in the room."

Clint gave an awkward chuckle at that and took his own entirely-not-clean backpack from the floor to hold it away from him as the tow boys walked out of the room. "Yeah, well, I wanted to prove that I could at least do simple things, like make casserole-"

Phil recoiled on the inside so severely his internal self was bent in half. _He was trying to make casserole? With peanut butter?_

"-but obviously that didn't work out like I planned it to." Clint rubbed the back of his neck subconsiously, subtley (he hoped) checking for anything he might have missed (there was nothing subtle about it).

Phil shrugged, trying to make Clint feel at least somewhat relaxed, "I like that you took the initiative to at least try to make something. Maybe you should have gotten a better idea about what to cook first, but I have a solution for that," Phil gently too hold of Clint's elbow to halt their progress, making sure to release the strawberry blonde before he asked, "We could have dinner together, get to know what it is that we like and don't like." Clint's eyes widened, but Phil powered on through before he lost his never, "Now I know that your foster father doesn't allow you to date, but I was thinking that if it was for your studies that he might go for it."

"Whoa wait, hold on," Phil's heart sank before he saw Clint grin, "The Colonel just put up a new rule! _I_ can date, when my brother _Steve _dates!"

Phil felt his heart soar at the update and his love struck brain began going five miles a minute in eight different directions. "That's great news! Do you like laser tag? I was thinking that maybe –"

Phil stopped immediately at Clint's grimace, "I don't know if you know this or not, but Steve is an old man in a hot guy's body. Ever heard of the Avengers' own personal crotchety old windbag? Yeah, that's Steve."

Phil held back a flinch, "Yeah, I, uh, noticed that he was a little bit old fashioned. But it can't be that hard to find him somebody right? Good looking guy, good morals, strong values that sort of thing. People have got to be tripping over their own feet to ask him out."

Clint let out a snort of hideous laughter (Phil thought it was glorious) so loud that it reverberated back into the hallways lockers. "Steve? Really? No, not in a million years."

"There has to be someone out there willing to date a difficult person. There are plenty people who love to talk about their values and options for making the world a better place. There is bound to be someone out there for him."

"And you think that that person is here? In Marvel High?" Clint sent Phil a sly smile, "You think you can find them?"

"Of course," Phil said with all the confidence that he didn't have.

"And you'd do that for me?"

Phil took the time to look Clint in the eye as he said, "Of course."

000000000000

The Plan: Revised Edition included assistance from Sitwell and the others, but Phil had enough faith in humanity to find _someone_ for Steve. All he needed now was a bit of luck and he was set, but hopefully there was somebody to Steve's undoubtedly high expectations. He'd heard from Clint that Steve didn't have a preference to men or women, so that double Phil's chances already for finding Steve a date. It was the sparkling goodness and golden heart that made things difficult.

"So I grabbed all the guys and girls that meet the requirements that you set," Sitwell explained as he and Phil walked down a flight of stairs to the sublevel entrance to one of the janitorial sheds during their lunch period, "and let me tell you that it wasn't easy. All of them have been told is that they have the chance to date a hot guy with a strong moral code with loyalties that will spread across the decades and into the next century."

"That is probably an exact description actually, " Phil admitted before turning the corner into the shed's entrance. Four girls, three boys, all of them losers with capital 'L's on their foreheads if Phil was any judge. Phil turned to Sitwell, "Let's get down to business," because the unspoken _to defeat *bang bang* the huns_ would have been easier to handle than their quest.

Phil and Sitwell separated them one at a time and asked them the same exact question, "How would you like to date Steve Rogers?"

The answers varied:

*_hysterical laughter*_

_Hell-No-Fuck-You-Face_

"_Maybe if we were the last two people alive and there were no sheep. Are there sheep?"_

_*bloodcurdling scream from one of the HYDRA Heads*_

As the last of the failures left, Sitwell looked to Phil, whose lips were pinched and pulled tight. "You know, that was more entertaining than I thought it'd be."

000000000000

**Later that Day in Biology Class:**

"Did I or did I not tell you that it would be useless?" Phil and Sitwell were talking over the smelly chemical smelling corpse of a frog. Well, in fairness it was Sitwell doing the talking and Phil doing the thoughtful glaring of the ones that are constantly interrupted while thinking. "Steve is just undateable. No one wants to listen about why they need to respect the footnotes of Benjamin Franklin's diary or talk about how society is going down hill for days on end, or even how people don't respect the traffic laws of India. _Nobody is going to date Steve in a hundred years_."

Phil gave another half-hearted squinty glare before something else caught his eye. Behind Sitwell, at another lab station looking at his own frog was a long-haired broody looking older boy. He was examining his frog curiously, taking a sniff and flinching at the smell before pulling out a flip knife from his pocket, standing the poor dead frog like it offended his mother. He then pulled the knife out, examined the blade and when he was satisfied with whatever he was looking for put the blade under his nose and sniffed again. Phil's mental light bulb flickered to life on half watts but the idea was just crazy enough to merit talking about.

Phil gestured towards the hopefully not entirely psychotic boy, "What about him?"

Sitwell only glanced before turning back to his work full force, "No, no, no, don't even look at him. That's James Bucchanan Barnes and he's the biggest criminal after Wade Wilson. I heard that he once lit a state trooper on fire because the trooper didn't have a lighter for his cigarette and so used the trooper as his own personal matchbook."

Phil was half certain that he didn't stop his eye roll in time. "Yes. Because everything you hear is entirely accurate."

Sitwell gave his own wry look before continuing, "But that's not even the point. He's totally not Steve's type. I mean, have you really _looked_ at him? He's more likely to smoke a pound of weed than help little old ladies across the street."

"Do you know Steve's type for sure?" Silence answered Phil. "I thought so. But it doesn't matter, we have to try something."

"But with a verifiable criminal?" Phil leaned back from Sitwell, considering it. Steve certainly didn't seem like the type for conjugal visits after all. "He once shot a guy from one hundred meters away with nothing but a paper clip and a rubber band. He sold his left arm on the black market so that he could get a robotic arm covered up to look like human skin."

Phil gave his friend his most serious blank face. He turned back to the delinquent to study the creature, maybe learn his habits and preferred environment to lead to a less stressful introduction to a potential mate. What Phil saw was him turning on a Bunsen burner and leaning over to try lighting a cigarette in his mouth. Once lit he took a satisfied breath of tar before the cancer stick was pulled from his mouth by his lab partner and stabbed into his frog to put it out. James merely pouted and returned back to work.

Sitwell shivered at Phil's confident smirk, "He's perfect."


End file.
